


Sideways

by MintJam



Series: Live a lie [1]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: ALL THE GOOD STUFF, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Light BDSM, M/M, Smut, more smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-10 02:27:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19489654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintJam/pseuds/MintJam
Summary: The start of their relationship. Alfie meets Tommy at Arrow House. It's meant to be business. It ends up as pleasure. Of a dark kind.





	Sideways

**Author's Note:**

> Set in Season 3, Episode 5, whilst Tommy is recuperating from his cracked skull at Arrow House (and planning the robbery of the Russians' treasury).

Tommy stares at his reflection in the full length mirror, dressed in a dark grey suit, wool, perfectly tailored. He feels detached, like the man staring back isn’t completely unexpected but at the same time, isn’t fully him either. Maybe it’s the open neck shirt – like a visual acknowledgement that he isn’t mended, isn’t yet fully capable of inhabiting the role of Thomas Shelby. Or maybe it’s the stance, the jut of his chin and slope of his shoulders just slightly less arrogant than before.He clears his throat and reaches for his cigarettes … the man in the mirror is going to have to do, because today is an important day, the day he sets his plan into action.

His first chat, with Johnny Dogs, goes well. The next one he’s less sure about. He needs Alfie Solomons to value the jewels in the Russians’ vault, but getting Arthur to work with the man again is not gonna be easy; Arthur’s temper and Alfie’s tendency to be an obnoxious bastard about everything could send this plan sideways before it’s even got started.

Mary walks across the grass to where Tommy and Johnny are sitting on the lawn and announces the arrival of “your brothers …and someone who calls himself the wandering Jew.” Tommy sighs and heaves himself out of the chair, reluctantly. Here goes nothing …

Alfie is standing in the window of the large study when Tommy arrives, looking for all the world like he owns the place. There’s a pleasing familiarity about the scruffy silhouette and gruff face – it’s been a long time and Tommy’s looking forward to Alfie’s unpredictable conversation – it makes him feel part of the real world again. He pours himself a whiskey and listens to the bastard grumble about being dragged up to the wilderness, making snide remarks about the house.Still, at least he came.

It almost feels like old times, the wary to and fro of words, the second guessing of intentions – except that Tommy is conscious all the while that he really needs to sit down. He’s still unable to stand for too long and the last thing he wants is for Alfie to know that. He needs to keep his weakness hidden, needs Alfie to believe that he’s back to full strength and capable of masterminding this spectacular plan. 

He chooses a chair on the wrong side of his own desk, and Alfie sits down right next to him, leaning in close. It could be mistaken for camaraderie, the proximity, just two old friends sitting amiably close – but Tommy knows better, knows he’s being watched. He isn’t holding himself right, hasn’t quite kept the pain from his face and Alfie can see it – his senses fine-tuned to vulnerability – he’s circling to take a closer look. Tommy can’t shake the feeling that Alfie is sitting so close because he wants to use the weakness to his advantage.

It starts innocently enough, they talk about the rumours swirling London in Tommy’s absence, Alfie verbose and cryptic as ever. It turns out he knows more than Tommy thought about the Russians … although hedoesn’t know about the treasury, which Tommy can use to his advantage. He knows Alfie has magpie tendencies and won’t be able to resist the chance to get his hands on sapphires and Faberge of such provenance. Plus he’ll be paid handsomely, of course. He adds a few flattering comments about Alfie’s unsurpassed expertise to massage his ego, then leaves the bait dangling and waits for a reaction.

The silence he is met with is not entirely unanticipated. Alfie is never one to appear eager. But he expects Alfie to make a sarcastic comment; to pick holes in the plan or start arguing the terms or at the very least to start some random anecdote that will eventually come full circle back to whatever it is he actually wants to say. Instead the silence stretches out uncomfortably, which is not Alfie Solomons’ usual style. It’s a game, must be, there’s no way Alfie isn’t interested in those jewels. Tommy’s just got to ride out the awkwardness. So he listens to the clock ticking dully in the background, to the slight creak of wood as Alfie shifts in his chair, and he waits. Eventually Alfie speaks.

“So why did you _really_ summon me up here, hmm?” Alfie's voice is low, and he's staring at Tommy intently, in that dark unnerving way he has.

Tommy feigns surprise. “Thought you’d like the business proposition, Alfie.”

“Business … right,” he murmurs, nodding his head slightly. He looks fucked off. “You sure that’s all?”

Tommy keeps his face blank, even though he’s wondering where the hell this is going. “You get offered diamonds and Faberge all the time eh?”

“Yeah mate,” Alfie says, “matter of fact I do. Well connected aren’t I?” They both know that’s bollocks. “That's not what I asked.”

“Why else do you think you’re here, Alfie?” asks Tommy, squinting now, reaching for his cigarettes and lighting one as he tries to figure out what’s going on inside Alfie’s head. Does he want a bigger cut? Does he think it’s a trap?

“I dunno, Tommy. You tell me. Maybe you’ve missed my unparalleled charm and good looks these past few months.”

Tommy inhales deeply on his cigarette before letting out a small huff of air from his nostrils by way of reply. He lets the rest of the smoke seep out in a slow cloud between them. The truth is he has rather missed these interactions; the way Alfie has to take every conversation sideways amuses and irritates him in equal measure. 

There’s a loud creak when Alfie sits back in his chair, as if pulling back to appraise Tommy with fresh eyes.

“You look fucked, mate.” he states.

“Yeah well, had a nasty accident didn’t I?”

“Yeah…you might ‘ave your expensive suit on, your nice shirt…” he gestures towards Tommy’s neck, continuing as though Tommy hadn’t interrupted him, “no tie mind…clearly I don’t warrant the tie. No matter. The point is you ain’t _fooling_ me, mate.” He shakes his head and purses his lips as if analysing the man before him. Which is probably exactly what he is doing Tommy realises.

Tommy looks down at the floor and shakes his head. _Should have seen me three months ago_ he thinks. It’s not like he can argue with the assessment, but he’s keen to move Alfie back onto the business in hand. “If this is gonna work then I need you to do something for me, Alfie.”

“Oh, right, course. ‘Cause I am just ‘ere to do your fuckin’ _bidding_ , mate. You just drag me up ‘ere and fire away with the requests. I usually take my orders from a fuckin' gypsy.”

“If this is gonna work, I need you to apologise to Arthur,” Tommy continues, ignoring him.

“Hmm. Right,” Alfie says too quietly. And Tommy knew this wasn’t going to go down well, but he waits for Alfie to say something else, to object or tell him to fuck off or get up and walk out of the room even. He does none of those things. He doesn’t even flinch, just continues to stare at Tommy as though he’s trying to figure out an enigma. Tommy can hold eye contact like a master, but something about the way Alfie is looking at him is unreadable and deeply unsettling. He’s sitting too close and there’s heat radiating off him and Tommy’s suddenly very conscious that his pulse has quickened.

“Shall I tell you what I see Thomas?” Alfie asks, and of course it’s rhetorical, because once Alfie Solomons has started on a train of thought he doesn’t stop to seek permission. He leans in even closer, as though he’s about to divulge a secret. Tommy can’t bring himself to lean away, because if he does it’ll be like admitting something – defeat or fear maybe – and he can’t give Alfie the upper hand. “I see a man who’s _tired_ of making all the decisions,” Alfie says, “I see a man who needs _help_. Thomas.”

This is not how the conversation was meant to go. Alfie was supposed to laugh at the suggestion. Or get furious, but then come to his senses – not fucking sit here and psychoanalyse him. It’s making him feel _exposed_ , like someone is staring straight into his head and plucking out his thoughts. His _feelings_. How the fuck does Alfie do this? Maybe he really isn’t ready to be dealing with this shit, maybe his head’s still too broken. But then his train of thought is abruptly halted, because there is a hand on his thigh, heavy and warm. Tommy swallows thickly, looking down at the gold rings as they squeeze around his leg.

“I see a man who needs to stop thinking for a bit,” Alfie states calmly, as if his hand moving up Tommy’s thigh were the most natural thing in the world. And for some reason Tommy doesn’t even want to think about, blood rushes straight to his groin. Maybe it’s the hand on his leg, squeezing hard enough to bruise, or maybe it’s the way Alfie’s words have just pierced him, like a truth he wasn’t even aware of suddenly revealed. He can feel himself getting hard, what the _fuck_ is wrong with him?

“Stop thinking, Tommy,” Alfie breathes as he brings his hands up, tucking his thumbs behind Tommy's ears, very deliberately pulling him closer still, until their lips are touching. Tommy can feel Alfie’s breath on his face, his beard against his cheek, and he wants to pull away but the hands are so firm, and his resolve is so weak … and then … they’re kissing. It’s so delicate, Alfie's mouth a stark contrast to the vice-like hands on his head, like Tommy’s being forced to accept the sweetness of it. Alfie’s lips are so soft and his movements so tender that it literally takes Tommy’s breath away – he can’t move. Alfie’s tongue just barely licks at the line of Tommy’s lips and he finds himself opening, welcoming the warmth and letting him in. It’s so fucking gentle it makes him feel pathetic and vulnerable and defenseless. And so he lets Alfie kiss him, opens wider and lets him suck the needy sounds from his mouth, stifling the horrifying urge to just break down. Why, why, _why_ is he reacting like this?

He lets out a whimper that is dangerously close to a sob and pulls away, pushing his head into Alfie’s shoulder, desperate to hide his eyes. Alfie is still holding his neck, stroking behind his ear and clasping him into his shoulder. He lets out a low, satisfied rumble that Tommy can feel vibrating through his hand which, shit, he hadn’t even realised, is gripping Alfie’s shirt like it’s a lifeline. Alfie isn’t even _saying_ anything and yet that sound in his chest is smug and knowing – like he knew that was _exactly_ what Tommy needed. It feels like electricity is humming through him. He needs to pull away, to get out of this embrace, but it’s been so long since he was truly held and Alfie is so solid it’s. It’s as though he is just too _weak_ to say no to the comfort … or too weak to _suppress_ that need for once. _Fuck_ , he doesn’t need to be _comforted_ , he just needs to get this business done.

After a few long moments – too long he knows – he pushes himself back, mumbling “I need a drink.” He drags himself out of the chair and walks unsteadily to the bar by the door, turning his back on Alfie to put some space between them and figure out what the hell to do next. It’s eerily quiet in the study, just that ticking clock and the distant sound of voices from far below them in the kitchen. He needs to buy himself some time. His hands are shaking as he fiddles with the decanter, pouring himself a large whiskey. He focuses on the sound of liquid hitting crystal and anticipates the burning numbness that will come when he swallows it back.

He startles when a voice behind him says, “your housekeeper tells me you ain’t s’posed to be drinking, mate” and turns to find Alfie leaning against the bookcase right next to him. He’s no longer wearing his coat or hat, and Tommy can’t help but look him up and down – the way he manages to make the dark trousers and waistcoat look absolutely feral – shirt sleeves haphazardly rolled up, hair a mess and his lips … shit he shouldn’t be looking at Alfie’s lips … dark pink and wet.

“Pretty sure I’m not s’posed to be kissing wandering Jews either,” Tommy replies, without humour.

“Put the drink down, Tommy,” Alfie says. His voice sounds like a warning.

“Fuck off,” Tommy replies, riled, because how _dare_ he.

“I said, put the fucking drink _down,_ ” Alfie growls, and Tommy can see the dangerous look in his eyes, the tension in his muscles. He should be alert – scared even – because he’s seen the way Alfie can snap in a split second.But he can’t seem to stop the urge to provoke him, because how _dare_ he make him feel like this … whatever this is. How dare he grab hold of him and _kiss_ him. And how _dare_ he tell him what to do in his own fucking house.

“Gonna make me?” he says coldly, staring Alfie straight in the eye as he knocks back a large mouthful.

And suddenly Alfie is moving faster than Tommy ever gave him credit for. He hears Alfie cursing, “ _fucks_ sake,” as he closes the space between them with a clumsy stride. In a heartbeat he finds himself pushed up against his own bookcase, one arm twisted painfully behind his back. Alfie’s body is pressed up hard against his back, holding him in place, and he can hear his tense breathing, quickened from the exertion. Alfie’s mouth is hovering dangerously close to his right ear.

“If you won’t listen to your doctors or your housekeeper, then perhaps you need someone else to tell you what to do,” Alfie growls.

Tommy tries to elbow him with his free arm, but he hasn’t got enough leverage and it only earns his other arm an even tighter twist – he’s painfully aware that Alfie could break it in a moment if he so chose. He feels anger and adrenaline coursing through him in seemingly equal measure.

“You’re a silly boy, Tommy,” Alfie continues, “Don’t you think your head’s fucked enough, without that stuff?”

“Get your fucking _hands_ off me,” Tommy snarls.

“You’re not in any position to be issuing the orders right now, mate.”

“Fuck _off!_ ” he shouts, anger rising.

“Nah, don’t think I will,” says Alfie in an irritatingly calm, sing-song voice, like he’s really considering the suggestion. “Think you’ll be listening to me now, darlin’.”

 _Darling_? Tommy thinks, what the _fuck_? “Fucking fuck _right_ off,” he rasps, alarmingly aware that he can’t really fight this, Alfie’s just going to twist his arm until he complies.

“Now spread your legs,” Alfie barks.

Tommy freezes, but shit … he can feel his cock jump in his trousers too.

“We can do this the hard way or the easy way, Tommy,” Alfie says calmly. When Tommy doesn’t move he feels a sharp kick to each shoe, Alfie’s boots forcing his feet out, whilst pushing his arm even higher up his back to stop him resisting.

“We both know you’re gonna do as I say, so may as well give up the pretence, eh?”

It’s fucking humiliating that he is getting harder with every word Alfie utters. Thank fuck his cock is pressed against the books and Alfie can’t see it from this angle – he can feel Alfie’s own erection pushing against his lower back and it arouses a mixture of excitement and dread … he’s powerless and they both know it. Alfie could do _anything_ …

And then Alfie is reaching round to the front of his trousers, undoing the buttons and sliding down the zip. Tommy feels his face flood with heat, clenches his eyes shut against the shame. Fucking hell, he’s going to feel how hard Tommy is, he’s going to know.

“Hmmm….thought so,” Alfie says smugly as he palms Tommy’s length through his underwear. “So how about you just give up pretending you don’t want this and do as I _fucking_ say,” he snarls.

When slowly he moves his hand inside Tommy’s shorts and wraps his fingers round the shaft it feels so good Tommy swallows audibly.

“This what you want, eh?” Alfie asks, running his hand up and down almost nonchalantly.

Tommy’s resolve is disintegrating and he tries so hard to stay still, to keep quiet, but the effort is too much and an involuntary moan escapes his lips.

“What’s that? Sorry, didn’t quite catch it,” Alfie says, infuriatingly.

“Yes,” Tommy whispers, because _fuck_ , he is pressed up against the wood and he can’t fucking _escape_ and his dick’s as hard as marble in Alfie's hand.

“Yes what?” Alfie asks, all innocent. Then the energy changes and with a far more sinister tone he adds, “ask nicely, Tommy,”

“Please ... Alfie” Tommy rasps through gritted teeth.

“Hmmmm. That’s a start,” Alfie’s hand is still barely moving in Tommy’s trousers, and his fingers are actually loosening.

“Please, don’t stop,” Tommy whispers, composure abandoning him completely now.

“Better, much better,” Alfie hums and he starts to move his thumb over the head of Tommy’s cock, smearing the moisture that’s beaded there and using it to flick over the head a few times before he finally pulls down in a long, languorous motion …it feels so good that Tommy can’t help but move his hips, wanting more, wanting harder, wanting faster. Alfie makes a satisfied humming noise in his ear and releases the armlock, clearly confident that Tommy is now too invested to attempt escape.

Alfie’s fingers, now freed from the armlock, lace through Tommy’s left hand and bring it up to rest on the bookshelf above his head. When Tommy tests it, tries to move the hand, Alfie clenches tighter and pushes his palm firmly into the wood – _fuck_ , he’s unyielding. He’s probably always been the stronger of the two, but especially now, when Tommy’s spent months in a hospital bed. He feels weak…fucking powerless…legs splayed wide, one arm above his head and Alfie pushing him hard up against the wooden shelves.

There’s a low whisper in his ear, “just relax, Tommy, s’all fine,” and he can’t fucking _think_ about this, can’t stand Alfie being _nice_ about it. He let’s out a whine…a goddamn fucking _whine_ and Alfie actually chuckles at that.

“That’s it. I wanna hear you, Tommy,” he says, and why can’t Alfie just shut the fuck up and get on with this? He is absolutely _not_ gonna start moaning … not deliberately at least … no need to feed the bastard’s ego more than he already has. His one compensation is that Alfie’s voice sounds husky, like he isn’t entirely in control either. Except that apparently he is. Very much in control.

“I said I wanna hear you.” Alfie repeats, calmly but with intent. He waits a few seconds for Tommy to respond but when he can’t, struck dumb by anticipation and embarrassment and fear, Alfie begins to remove the hand from his shorts and takes a backwards step, releasing the pressure on Tommy’s back and almost freeing him. And _fuck, no!_ He doesn’t _want_ to be freed he realises with shocking clarity.

He presses his forehead into the books clinging on to a shelf with his right hand, whilst Alfie maintains the high grasp on his left. The space Alfie has opened up between their bodies leaves Tommy feeling cold and boneless, like he might just collapse.

“But, I mean if you don’t wanna do it my way, then feel free to carry on yourself, mate. I’ll just sit over there,” Alfie nods towards the desk.

Mortified as he is, brain waging an internal battle between obedience and defiance, Tommy feels something inside him give. Whether it’s lust or acquiescence winning out he doesn’t know, but he lets out a strangled, mewling sound that is so demeaning to his own ears he screws his eyes shut, absolutely mortified.

“Fucking _hell_ mate, now that is a beautiful sound,” Alfie hums approvingly, “you sound like a fucking _kitten_.”

Tommy whimpers, “please, Alfie, please,” desperate not to give himself away with more noises yet half expecting Alfie to drag more words from him, to make this even harder than it already is. To his relief, Alfie just takes Tommy’s cock in his hand again and starts to fist him – faster this time.

“Fuck my hand, Tommy” he says and Tommy can’t help it, he groans obscenely, desperately and bucks his hips. 

“Adda boy. See how good it feels to do as you’re _fucking_ told?”

Tommy feels his inhibitions slip even further away, he is panting hard, can feel the tendrils of climax inching closer. He grunts into the wood, chasing his end, yes, but also chasing something else that he doesn’t fully understand – that sound of approval on Alfie’s lips.

Alfie continues the incredible strokes, maintaining a disciplined rhythm as he continues to pin him to the wall. Tommy’s hips rise to meet the thrusts and when he starts gasping desperately, barely able to stave off the inevitable release, Alfie slows a little, murmuring,

“You’ll come when I tell you to Tommy. When I get to ten, not a moment sooner,” And he’s fucking _counting_ Tommy realises …painfully slowly.

“That's it Tommy,” he mumbles, breaking off the counting momentarily, “you’re doing _so_ good.” And Jesus Christ, Tommy knows he could just come right this fucking second, but suddenly he doesn’t _want_ to … doesn’t _want_ to come without Alfie’s permission. He doesn’t know why it feels so important, just that it _does_.

“8,” Alfie cants, pulling the foreskin back achingly slowly once more,

“9,” and he’s definitely dragging this out … two, three strokes to each spoken number so that Tommy can’t even tell how long he’s supposed to hold out for anymore…he’s panting hopelessly.

“10. Come for me Tommy,” Alfie growls.

And Tommy does, he comes so hard that his voice cracks and his legs buckle, light blazes against his eyelids and he can’t fucking think. Even as Alfie is stroking him through it he feels himself sliding helplessly towards the floor, Alfie taking some of his weight – one knee between his thighs and that hand still holding him up – but he’s still sliding. Alfie eases him onto the floor until he is slumped, side-on to the bookcase, hands resting on his knees, eyes half-lidded.

Alfie is looming over him, one hand resting on the bookcase, the other searching in his trousers, freeing his own cock which he unceremoniously starts tugging. In a few strokes he is coming silently, hot liquid spurting onto Tommy’s hands below him as he sighs, “fuckin’ _hell,_ Tommy.” And he’s not sure what Alfie means by that and whether it’s good or bad and why it should matter either way. It should be degrading, he realises, the way Alfie just leant over him and emptied himself, but Tommy doesn’t care – doesn’t ever remember feeling this fucking _spent._ He presses his eyes into his upper arm and tries to regain his breathing.

After a few minutes, he realises he’s gonna have to deal with this – change his suit before Arthur and John get in here. He peeks up from his place on the floor to see that somehow Alfie looks absolutely fine, is now reclined in a chair, hands laced across his stomach just staring at Tommy with an almost endearing half smile on his face. He fishes in his pocket momentarily for a handkerchief which he fucking throws at Tommy, smirking “clean yourself up, there’s a good boy.”

Tommy blushes crimson as he pulls himself up, he can’t even bring himself to spit out a retort as he strips off his jacket and holds it across his front to hide the worst of it. As he stumbles out of the office he brushes past John who is just on his way into the study.

“You alright Tom?” his brother asks, putting a concerned hand on his shoulder. Tommy flinches, can’t fucking look John in the eye. He’s just come so hard in Alfie’s hand that he can’t speak, a surge of shame is washing deliciously over him. He waves a hand dismissively and says ‘gimme 5 minutes,” as he disappears towards the stairs, hellbent on escape, for a moment at least.

He hears Alfie in the background saying, “legs just gave way…dizzy spell maybe, must be over doin’ it. Silly boy.” Alfie fucking Solomons. What the fucking _fuck_ just happened?


End file.
